


The Exchange

by ZehWulf



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Aziraphale’s Bookseller Persona, Community: Do It With Style Events, Crowley’s Infernal Expectations of Technology, Do It With Style Mini Bang (Good Omens), Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Posing as a Mortal, The History of the UK Telephone System, Wrong number, low-key identity porn, when you’re too worried about appearing non-human to notice the other person is just as non-human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25374517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZehWulf/pseuds/ZehWulf
Summary: The first time he picked up his telephone and didn't hear Joan or one of the other ladies greet him, he just rolled his eyes, assumed they were cross with him, and firmly asked for the shop he was trying to connect to into the receiver like normal. He even said please! And the thing about being a being of considerable occult power with a history of shaping parts of the universe is that, sometimes, the world bends to oblige you.So, the only thing that surprised him about Fell answering the line in response to his demand for "an expert on ancient greek and roman preparations of oysters" was that they'd made long-distance calls considerably less bothersome at some point.ORCrowley is a big fan of technology but has zero idea how it works, which leads to him developing an unlikely friendship with a fussy bookseller who happens to be an expert on a miraculous number of subjects.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 333
Kudos: 510
Collections: Good Omens Mini Bang, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner





	1. Crowley Don't Lose That Number

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Do It With Style Minibang Event](https://do-it-with-style-events.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Huge, massive thanks to my minibang partner and artist, Maria. Her gorgeous work will grace each chapter of this fic, and she's been such a delightful collaborator and cheerleader as I slogged through getting the first draft of this fic written. If you want to see more of her amazing work, you can find her on [Tumblr](https://mies-reveriesart.tumblr.com/), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/mies.reveries/), and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MiesReveries).
> 
> All love to my beta, [onlysmallwings](http://archiveofourown.org/users/onlysmallwings/).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Posting note:** The fic has a full first draft written, but I'm still in heavy edit mode on the back chapters, and Rhea is still working on the later-chapters art, so I don't have a fixed schedule for when chapters will go up except to promise that this will be completed eventually. :)

**[London, 1910]**

It started because (1) there were too many blessed comets, (2) Ligur was a cagey bastard, and (3) the London exchange had recently acquired and connected enough subscribers across businesses, universities, and the research-prone idle rich to be considered a proper information network.

He picked up the handset of his presumably rented skeleton-type telephone and glared at the crank until it meekly rang the operator. As soon as he heard the faint click that signaled the line was picked up, he launched right in:

"Hello, duckie," he said with as much slathered on warmth as he could manage, "could you put me through to an expert on portents and prophecies?"

There was a pointed, staticky pause before an icily polite voice replied, "Good afternoon, Mr. Crawly." There was a little too much emphasis on the "aw" for it to be anything other than deliberate, and Crowley winced. "Shall I assume you don't know the exchange number of the subscriber you're attempting to reach? Again?"

In retrospect, mildly terrorizing the London Exchange operators as a way to literally phone-in his wiles quota week over week last year hadn't been the best decision. He hadn't counted on the operators being able to recognize his voice so easily with how shitty audio quality still was on the line.[1] Or that the pool of operators would be so consistent and so quick to share information about the bastard who never knew the number he was trying to reach, constantly changed his mind about dialing long-distance after they'd got the trunk connected, and often tried to make infuriatingly condescending small talk with the operators instead of stating his purpose, thus tying up valuable line time.

"Joan," he drawled with entirely shammed enthusiasm, "queen of the London Exchange and all around rarified specimen of a woman, here's the thing: I really need to know what's going on with all these comets, and I've exhausted all my usual sources."

"This is a telephone exchange, sir, not a reference library," she replied, tartly.

Crowley briefly pressed the handset against his chest so he could let loose a string of profanities that would absolutely get his exchange license suspended without a judicious use of infernal wiles.

He took a deep breath, plastered on a grimacing smile and cooed into the receiver, "You are absolutely correct, Joan, Joan-y, apple of my eye. Harriet's eye!" he corrected hastily.[2] "Before you pull the jack, can I just ask… did you and the ladies enjoy those chocolates last week?"

The static was much more intrigued this time. "That was you?" she asked dubiously, her tone slipping from professionally polite into something more sincere.

"Let's just say there's more where that came from if you can do me this favor," he hedged, not wanting to cop outright to what some might consider a good deed.[3]

"Fine. There's a bookseller who has a reputation for collecting books of prophecy. I'll put you through—this time. I highly recommend you request his exchange number if you wish to call again in future," she warned.

"Marvelous," he gritted out.

A series of clicks, a prolonged silence lasting long enough that he had time to hiss few infernal sermons to a misbehaving plant sitting in the naughty corner on his desk, and then Joan was finally back. "You're through," she announced without ceremony.

"This is A.Z. Fell and Co., antiquarian and unusual books," a fussy sort of voice said and then rattled off their exchange number. "This is the proprietor speaking," he finished with a leading uptick at the end.

"Hello, I need an expert on prophecies, ideally biblical ones." He didn't give his name because he was getting antsy, but if asked would claim it was because it was hideously rude.

There was a pause on the other end before the voice came back hesitantly, "Were you looking to purchase a book on biblical prophecies?"

"No," Crowley said firmly, "I just need someone who can tell me what the comets are about."

"Oh!" the proprietor said, sounding notably more cheerful. "I do happen to be something of an expert," he demured. "What precisely did you wish to know more about?"

"There was the one in January, and Halley's is due in another month," Crowley said. "People are starting to talk about the end times. Just wondering if there's any, er, writings that might be inspiring it."

In point of fact, he was wondering if there were enough bits of _inspiring_ human oral traditions and literature that it might have made its way down below and given his boss ideas. "Soon enough" was what Beezulbub had drawled last time Crowley had dared raise the question, which could have meant tomorrow or in five hundred years for all immortal beings judged. And his subtle attempts to get intel off Ligur about whether the comets were infernally inspired had been like trying to wring blood from a stone.[4]

"Ah, yes, the one those chaps spotted down in Johannesburg, was it? Quite remarkable," the man mused. The faint sound of rustling suggested he was moving something about. He tutted. "And I did notice some of the gents at the club were getting themselves into a lather about Halley's approach. Something about comet pills and umbrellas or some such nonsense."

Crowley nettled. "I didn't say I believed it _personally._ It's a comet. Has its whole—" He waved his hand in a parabola around his head and then immediately felt foolish enough to tuck it under his opposite arm holding the handset. "—it's orbit. Like a great big bird on a seventy-six-year-long migration pattern."

"A bird that occasionally catches fire," the man chortled nervously. "Oh, please don't take offense, my good fellow," he went on, voice practically vibrating with tension down the line. "I wholly understand taking an academic interest in something you know to be flawed but that others place their entire faith in."

Crowley rolled his eyes but figured he couldn't risk losing the line since he absolutely had not paid attention when the man said his exchange number, and this was his best lead to date. So, instead of taking advantage of the vulnerable opening the man gave, him he settled for, "No offense taken, Mister—is it Fell? Or are you And Company?"

That startled a genuine laugh from the other man, which Crowley struggled to not find the tiniest bit charming. "I answer to Fell, yes. Oh, here we are," he said with obvious satisfaction and then immediately pivoted into possibly the most excitedly pedantic tone Crowley had ever heard outside a university lecture hall: "Okay, so, as you _may_ be aware, there are many traditions across a variety of religious schools that view comets as omens of the end times, none of which have come to fruition, obviously."

"Obviously," Crowley echoed, managing to strip all but the faintest tinge of sarcasm from his tone. He trusted the quality of the connection to finish off the last of it.

"However, I had a niggle that a Pope had made a prophecy about Halley's comet in particular, but I've just found the text, and it seems that old silly Callixtus III simply excommunicated the poor thing for being a tool of the devil—in general terms, mind, not with any specific list of charges."

"Like heralding the birth of the antichrist?" Crowley blurted out, caught wrongfooted by the unexpected direct reference to the one instance where he'd had a go at using humans' deep-born fear of seemingly unpredictable astral bodies to cause mischief.

"Oh!" the other man said. "No," he went on slowly, "no mention of comets as portenders of the coming of the Great Beast, that I know of."

"Terrific," Crowley said and tipped his head back to thunk on the back of his throne in cautious relief.

"Although," Fell went on, voice just a touch higher pitched than before, "that isn't an altogether wild idea, my good fellow. Several of the major religious texts refer to stars falling as a portent of the apocalypse. I had always thought, well, meteorites, of course, and the timing always seemed to refer to when the horsemen would ride, not the birth. Of course, who's to say the antichrist couldn't spring fully formed like a demonic Athena—oh, that is a _terrible_ comparison," Fell blathered on, voice quick and stuttering.

"Fell, _Fell_ ," Crowley cut in once he recovered from the sudden deluge of anxious words. "Calm down." He sat up again in the throne and leaned forward, bracing an elbow on the desk. "It was a daft idea—don't know why I got stuck on it. We already said Halley's just doing its, er, regular thing. Just physics, s'all." He wouldn't say he felt guilty, but it got under his scales when he scared humans without meaning to.[5]

The line crackled with what he assumed was a deep breath. "Oh, yes, well, quite right. Of course. Apologies. I got carried away," the other man said, voice still obviously pitchy, even over the subpar connection.

"Not a problem," Crowley said smoothly. "And I appreciate the research. All sorted on comets."

"Oh. Oh, good," the man breathed out. "I'm so glad I could be of assistance." He sounded so relieved and warm that Crowley could practically feel the goodwill beaming down the line. "It is an interesting line of inquiry. If you have an academic interest in comets as portents, I would be delighted to do some further reading and follow up," he said more thoughtfully, and then sounding positively gleeful: "There are a few more esoteric volumes on portents I've been considering buying—no guarantee they'll mention comets, but it wouldn't hurt to acquire them to be sure."

Crowley grinned at the unabashed avarice underlying the offer of assistance. Humans: always tangling up their vices and virtues.

"I'm full up on comets, me, but don't let that stop you," he said cheerfully.

There was a sudden click on the line, and Joan's voice cut in frostily polite: "Gentlemen, may I offer a courteous reminder that there are others waiting for a line to come free. If you could please conclude your business, the London Exchange would be ever so grateful."

"Oh!" Fell gasped. "Of course, Joan, I am so sorry. We're just finished now."

"Wonderful," she drawled, and without a by-your-leave pulled the line.

Crowley held the handset away from his ear and gave the mouthpiece an extremely rude gesture before resting it carefully back on the cradle.

Well, that more or less laid to rest his original concerns. Wouldn't hurt to poke around a bit more. Fell had mentioned something about snake oil salesmen capitalizing on the panic. That sounded like something he could fan the flames of, make for a good report. And if he was writing about comets anyway, it could be a good opportunity to make them sound trite and uninspired as portents, just to put a nail in any coffins that could be rattling around downstairs. Overall, he judged it to be a fruitful call.

* * *

  


1 His understanding of how the exchange system and subscriber numbers worked left a lot to be desired, which meant he had no idea that his own exchange line was clearly labeled both officially and quite unofficially by way of a neat ring of warning-red lipstick highlighting his receiver jack. [return to text]

2 Harriet was Joan's "sentimental friend," and they were flatmates. [return to text]

3 The problem with learning someone's name was that it tended to make them stand out from the delightfully writhing but unspecified crowd of humanity and turn into actual people. It was why he usually stuck with nicknames. But Joan in particular had rung off on him enough times that he'd given up the ghost. She still refused to pronounce his name correctly in a bit of passive-aggressive revenge he had to grudgingly respect. [return to text]

4 To be fair, bleeding inanimate objects wasn't really his forte in the broader demonic workings skillset. His O+ always came out as an especially chewy cabernet sauvignon. [return to text]

5 Scaring humans was _great_ fun, but an indulgence best enjoyed on his own terms. Unintentional scaring put him too much in mind of the days before the invention of sunglasses when frightening someone unawares could mean a fast ticket to a nasty discorporation. [return to text]


	2. You might use it if you feel better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! Beta and editing work is finished, and [Maria](https://mies-reveriesart.tumblr.com/) is hard at work on illustrations (y'all, her work is so beautiful!!!), so I'm hoping the rest of the chapters will go up at a fairly steady clip now. No promises on timelines, since I don't want any pressure on my lovely artist, but it's coming!
> 
> Also, I forgot to add in the first chapter notes, but about a bajillion years ago (March), I asked the fine folks over in the GO-Events Discord for some inspo on what Aziraphale might be an expert in because I was thinking about writing a wrong number AU fic. Then Mini Bang came a-knocking and many of those ideas got baked into what you'll read here, so thanks GO-Events friends! :D

**[New York - 1925]**

  


It happened again because (1) people were getting antsy and reflexively snobbish about the dwindling oyster supplies, (2) Prince Beezlebub was a crawling up his backside, and (3) Crowley, for all his fascination with human technology, had no idea how it worked.

Oh, Crowley always had the latest, most flash model of telephone, and he was vaguely aware that phone exchanges were becoming faster, more automated, allowing more and more people to connect like never before. What he didn't clock was that the fussy dial that came preinstalled on his new model 150 wasn't purely decorative.

The first time he picked up his telephone and didn't hear Joan or one of the other ladies greet him, he just rolled his eyes, assumed they were cross with him, and firmly asked for the shop he was trying to connect to into the receiver like normal. He even said please! And the thing about being a being of considerable occult power with a history of shaping parts of the universe is that, sometimes, the world bends to oblige you.

Once the precedent was set, well...

By the time he found himself in New York, elbow deep in trying to pull off a prestige temptation to get Prince Beezlebub to stop looking like ze was considering setting a swarm of horse flies on him, it was a well-worn habit to pick up the handset or candlestick body of whatever telephone was nearby and bark his requirements into it and get an appropriate connection.

So, the only thing that surprised him about Fell answering the line in response to his demand for "an expert on ancient greek and roman preparations of oysters" was that they'd made long-distance calls considerably less bothersome at some point.[6]

"Hi, it's me," he said. "What can you tell me about how the Greeks and Romans used to prepare oysters back in the day?"

"Er..." Fell said on the other end of the line. "Apologies, my good fellow, but who is this? And I'm afraid I'll need you to clarify what you mean by 'back in the day'—both cultures have enjoyed oysters as a delicacy for, oh, it must be going on two millennia now. That is quite a lot of history to cover, you know."

Crowley paused in sifting through drafts of menus from two of New York's preeminent dining establishments and blinked. "Right, I'm comets guy. Er, Anthony."

"Comets... Oh, yes! Well, the world hasn't ended," Fell said jovially.

"Hmm," Crowley agreed absently, making a notation on one menu, "not for lack of trying."

"Ah, yes," Fell replied with a small sigh. "Yes, it's been quite the decade and change. Things appear to be settling down finally, at least."

Crowley paused to give the phone receiver a mildly incredulous look. "For a given value of calm, sure," he said, holding back from venomous levels of sarcasm only because he was calling for information, and you didn't burn sources until you were through with them. "And I'm talking, oh, what are they calling it these days—late Hellenistic Greece? Rome's 'Golden Age'?" he said, heavy with air quotes. "In any case, roughly two millennia ago."

Fell hummed contemplatively before letting out a happy "ah!" and saying enthusiastically, "Yes, there was a man, Petronius, who was doing remarkable things with oysters around that time."

"Yeah?" Crowley said, perking up. "Any chance you have anything like a recipe or at least a detailed description of a feast?"

"I believe I do! Give me two shakes of a lamb's tail," Fell said brightly, and there was a quiet clatter as he must have set the receiver down to go look something up.

Crowley used the time to scrawl "strawberries?" as a suggestion for the fruit cocktail ingredients next to Albert's frustrated scribbles under the heading "dessert." On Charles's draft he triple underscored the word "chocolate" where the man had proposed a chocolate ganache drizzled over a scoop of Neapolitan ice cream.

"Here we are!" Fell's voice came back unexpectedly, and Crowley fought not to fumble the receiver in surprise. "Yes, I have notes from, er, a _well_ -preserved diary of, ah, a patron of Petronius's establishment."

"Terrific," Crowley said, absolutely meaning it. "Read it out to me? I've got paper ready."

Fell rattled off a few different preparations, the diary containing mostly speculation about ratios of ingredients since Petronius was apparently tight-lipped about his exact formulas. "According to this diary, I mean," Fell explained a little breathily.

"What is this for, if you don't mind my asking?" Fell asked once he'd relayed everything of interest from the diary.

Crowley thought about lying or prevaricating, but honestly he'd been dying to explain his plan to _someone_ , and he knew no one downstairs was likely to appreciate the finer points of the setup, only the outcome. Fell was a relative stranger, but smart. He might appreciate the cunning, and it wasn't like Crowley would give two figs if he disapproved.

"Making a bit of trouble," he said smugly.

There was a long pause before Fell said, crushingly, "My dear fellow, how could you possibly create trouble with _oysters_."

Crowley cackled. "All kinds! Did you know, New York is famous for them? Had a whole harbor full of them that they've overharvested to the brink of extinction, and they're just starting to get properly panicked about it. Scarcity means they're coming back round to being considered a delicacy again in fine dining, which just drives up demand even more."

"Yes, but what does that have to do with—oh, you dreadful thing, I suppose you're involved in the fine dining part of this scheme, are you?"

"Got it in one," Crowley confirmed, tickled that Fell was able to connect the dots so easily.

"You said 'all kinds,' though," Fell said reprovingly. "I suspect it's not as straightforward as putting exotic historic recipes on a menu."

Crowley grinned wide. "It might interest you to know that there's an heiress who is a huge fan of fine dining _and_ who has caught the eye of the chefs of two _very_ classy New York restaurants who loathe one other."

"And you're helping one to gain the upper hand?" Fell guessed dryly.

"I'm helping _both_ —not that they know it," Crowley said with relish.

"Anthony, that's hardly sporting," Fell said. "And what of the poor woman? How is she faring, caught in the middle of a food-driven love triangle?" And _that_ was the tone of a man who sounded like he ought to be scandalized but was mostly just wistful.

"Ol' Minnie?" Crowley drawled. "Having the time of her life. I'm not sure she's caught on to either one, honestly, just flattered that these two talented chefs are so keen to make sure she's having the best dining experience of her life, every time she comes round."

"Surely one of them has declared himself?" Fell protested.

"I _may_ be encouraging the belief that it's better to let the food speak for itself than to say anything direct—might scare her off, you know. Makes for an amazing floorshow when they come out to ask after the meal when she's finished."

"And what do two-thousand-year-old oysters say, in this silent battle of the heart?" Fell inquired, sounding close to laughter.

"Fell!" Crowley said, drawing the name out. "I took you for a man of the world. Oysters have a reputation for being aphrodisiacs."

"Oh, you are absolutely awful!" Fell declared, clearly giggling.

"You don't approve?" Crowley asked, mock sorrowful.

"Of course not!" Fell cried. "You are clearly out to make as much mischief as possible, winding up these poor men and subjecting an unsuspecting woman to lustful bivalves." He sighed. "Oh, but it does sound terribly romantic, being wooed so carefully and with what I assume are absolutely exquisite meals."

Crowley scented blood. "Bit of a glutton, Fell?" he asked sweetly.

He shouldn't have been able to, but he swore he heard a disapproving sniff over the line. "I," Fell declared primly, "am an epicure."

Crowley guffawed unattractively. Fell was fun. _This_ was fun.

"My apologies," he said. "Anyway, I won't keep you. I have competing menu suggestions to post."

"Of course," Fell said waspishly. "I can't say I'm pleased to be part of your scheme, though I suppose it sounds harmless enough."

Though he knew Fell couldn't see him, he bobbled his head from side to side with a small wince.

What it was, was a turbulent sea of lust, pride, and occasionally displaced envy and wrath on the part of the men, and gleeful gluttony on Minnie's. He was still working on sloth. For the next phase, he was going to encourage more direct competition, and he thought with the right suggestion he could get Minnie to demand Albert and Charles service her at her own home. He was so close to a cardinal sins hat trick: all seven in one go. If he could just get them all in the same room in the right circumstances...

If those berks downstairs were so hung up on craftsmanship, then by Satan he would give them craftsmanship.

"Sure, harmless," he said cheerfully. "Thanks for the help, Fell. You're a real angel," he said because it was one of his perversely favorite things to call someone who'd helped him pull off a temptation.

Fell spluttered and scoffed. "Well, you're a true fiend," he quipped back.

Crowley choked out a laugh. "Guilty as charged."

He hung up feeling quite chuffed about the whole thing and resolved to keep Fell in mind for any other food- or beverage-related research he might need in future.

* * *

  


6 In fact, in placing a successful transatlantic call from New York to London, he was enjoying a singular achievement that wouldn't be savored by most humans for another two years. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff I know way more about now than I really need to b/c this is a period-hopping fic:
> 
>   * Retroactively, because I forgot to add it to the first chapter end notes: The entire history of telephone exchange systems, telephone model technology, popular telephone model designs over the years, specifically and especially how the evolution of telephone everything played out in the UK. I already knew what an a-holes AG Bell and Edison were but got to refresh my memory on particulars (og patent trolls of the highest order, among (many) other offenses), though none of those details made it into the fic. Also: COMETS and comet-related hysteria. 
>   * When and where oysters have gone out of culinary fashion throughout history. Fun fact: oysters were a "common folk" food for, like, a long time. The easy availability of a quick, cheap source of protein led to fast-food type oyster bars cropping up and persisting for almost a century in both the UK and New York starting roughly(?) in the late 1700s / early 1800s, which is what led to such rapid overharvesting and the "crash" of the oyster market in the mid-to-late 1920s in NY in particular.
>   * Popular American desserts in the 1920s, tho I spared y'all from the uncanny valley sins of the meteoric rise of aspic.
>   * Also, y'all, the late 19-teens through the early 1920s were way more of a mess than I remembered. In draft notes they were supposed to have their second call in 1918 as that's when using the rotary dial to direct-dial people became non-optional within local exchanges, buuuuuuut that was also the year the Spanish Flu pandemic really got underway, and then there were all these riots in 1919, and 1920 was also a shit show... anyway, I was like "FINE" and bumped the call several more years, found the oyster angle, realized they were just shy of transatlantic calls being a thing, so punted Crowley across the pond and it (finally) came together, lol.
> 



	3. And you could have a change of heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, this is a long boi!

**[Various, 1930-1982]**

  


It was only a few years later that he found himself picking up the phone in light of that resolve.

"Hey, it's Anthony," he said, sprawled in his throne with a few sketches laid out across the desk for consideration. "Got any recommendations on a wine vintage that says 'I know what I'm about' but not 'I'm a massively snobby prick'?"

There was a stiff pause before Fell said sweetly, "Well _hello_ , Anthony, so _wonderful_ to hear from you."

Crowley grinned. "Oh, you want pleasantries this time? All right: I'm just dandy. Spiffing. Tip top, even. And you?"

There was a soft tsking sound over the line. "Honey catches more flies than vinegar, I'll have you know. And I am quite well, thank you," Fell said with exaggerated formality.

"Not a fly fan, me," Crowley quipped.

"Oh, you know what I mean," Fell said, sounding well on his way to a snit.

"Did I catch you at a bad time?" Crowley asked. "Should I ask 'And Company' to get on the line instead?"

"There's no—" Fell said, sounding annoyed before cutting off and continuing in a more modulated tone, "I suppose I am a little tetchy today. And it isn't very kind of me to take it out on you." He paused. "Though you _were_ awfully rude."

"Occupational hazard," Crowley said cheerfully. "How's this: I'll tell you how that oyster love triangle turned out if you'll overlook my rudeness and answer my question."

Fell held out all of five seconds before he said overly casually, "I suppose I could agree to those terms. Though I would appreciate at least a modicum of decorum should you have need of my expertise at a future date. It's only polite."

Crowley rolled his eyes, but it wasn't like it was any skin off his nose to agree, and there wasn't a guarantee he would ever have cause to call again anyway. Besides, Fell hadn't stipulated what counted as "decorum" or even what "modicum" meant, so…

"Sure, sounds like a fair arrangement."

"Excellent," Fell said warmly, and then with a fair amount more verve, "Whatever happened with Minnie and her beaus?"

"She invited them to prove once and for all who was the better chef by catering a private dinner at her home."

"Well, that was certainly daring of her," Fell observed, sounding simultaneously envious and scandalized.

"Mmm," Crowley agreed, feeling residually smug about pulling off that bit of the temptation. "As you might expect, it started out tense and then went downhill _very_ quickly, but then…" he trailed off, grinning.

Fell huffed. "Oh, you wicked man. What happened then? And how were you in a position to know anyway?"

"Oh, I struck up a friendship with Minnie. Convinced her to have them both over. Might have suggested that if she could get the two fellows to see past their differences, they might all come to a mutually agreeable accord."

That was an honest-to-someone gasp over the line. "Anthony," Fell breathed out in shocked delight, "did you help them all to finding a happily ever after together?"

Crowley froze. "Er."

"Oh, I was more than a little cross after our last call that you were egging those poor gentlemen on, but it turns out you're a bit of a romantic after all."

"Oi, no, I egged them all into having a spectacular row over _shellfish_ and then settle into a life of scandal and sin!" He'd got his hat trick! And then ensured they'd keep up a torrid affair that would require them to lie almost constantly to keep it hidden. Hell had been grudgingly impressed.

Fell hummed thoughtfully. "Well, are they happy? Are they hurting anyone else?"

Crowley spluttered.

"Ultimately, it sounds like love won the day, and you were its Cupid," Fell said, positively oozing approval. "What a delightful end to the story! Oh, thank you so much for telling me. Now, what sort of audience are you serving this wine to? You can't make the right impression unless you can be confident your message will come through as intended, after all."

Wasn't that the bloody truth. Crowley thunked his head back against the backrest of the throne a few times.

Whatever, Fell was clearly the daft romantic, not Crowley.

Down to business, he thought, and laid out the particulars for Fell.

They debated and bickered for nearly an hour, but at the end, Crowley had a short list of choices he was feeling confident about.

"Have a good day," he said, in the end, because a deal was a deal.

"Oh, you as well. Don't hesitate to call again. I find I quite enjoy our chats," Fell said.

Crowley rolled his eyes for about the twelfth time of the call, but there was a smile tugging insistently at one corner of his mouth.

.

.

.

Without much conscious effort, calling Fell became a habit.

"Know anything about art history?"

"Which era? I'm afraid I have a bit of a European bias, but I do know quite a bit about Japanese art."

"Oh yeah? Fan of the culture?"

"If you must know, it's the sushi. And the rest follows."

"Ah, right. Epicure," he teased.

Fell was always curious about why he needed the information, and more often than not Crowley found himself telling honest if highly edited versions of what he was doing.

"My dear fellow, if you don't mind me asking, are these a series of occupations? I have half a mind to think you're a spy!"

"Er, I'm a consultant," Crowley said, inventing the term and occupation several decades early.

Although, the spy suggestion rattled around in his head long enough that eventually he decided it might be fun to try his hand.

"Oi, Fell, I've got some connections, ears to the ground," he said urgently one evening in 1941.

"Oh, Anthony, are you staying safe?" Fell asked anxiously. Then, more crossly, "And just where is my hello, you hooligan?"

"Yes, fine, hello, hi, lovely bomb weather we're having isn't it?" he snapped impatiently. "Listen, I've heard there's a double-agent in MI-6."

"O-oh, that is quite troubling," Fell said, sounding wrong-footed. "Why are you telling me? Shouldn't you tell, I don't know, someone in His Majesty's service?"

"Because I've also heard Führer Mustache is obsessed with books of prophecy and has his goons looking for sellers. And I also _also_ heard there's a sting operation being set up about it. And who do I happen to know who might both have rare books of prophecy and be daft enough to try his hand at amateur espionage, hmm?"

There was a telling silence over the line. "I'll certainly keep it in mind," Fell said, soft and chastened sounding. "Thank you, Anthony. You truly are a kind man."

Crowley nearly retched into the mouthpiece of his new Bakelite. "Ugh, there's no need for that kind of language," he said gruffly. "Just… stay sharp, yeah? Don't want to hear about you in the papers because you got played for a sucker."

"Of course not," Fell said. "Is… is there anything I can do for you?" he asked hesitantly. "Any expertise I can lend for your… consultancy work?"

Crowley fumbled for an excuse, feeling suddenly exposed for calling the daft idiot merely on the off chance he could get in trouble. Something twinged in the shriveled recesses of his metaphorical heart region, and he ruthlessly stamped it down. "Masonry!" he blurted. "Got some… some walls that need breaching, but carefully?"

He winced with how transparently off-the-cuff it sounded. He supposed if he hadn't been around for the invention of masonry it might be a valid question. There were a few old castles being used as Nazi strongholds he was looking to infiltrate, after all.

"You are in luck, my dear boy," Fell said warmly. "I happen to have some hands-on experience in the arena, from my days before I was a bookseller."

Despite himself, Crowley ended up taking notes.

"Just how strong are you?" he demanded at one point, ignoring how flushed his neck was feeling.

"What do you…? Oh, well, I suppose I have certain innate features…" Fell trailed off with a self-conscious-sounding chuckle. "Of course, if you cannot manage on your own, a fulcrum or pulley-system of some sort will do just fine."

Crowley swallowed heavily and asked a pointed question about mortar.

And if oozing thoughts started to creep in about how on in his years Fell must be getting if he'd had time for a whole other profession before this one, considering how long they'd been exchanging calls, Crowley shunted them into the same dark corner as those too-soft feelings that had inspired the call in the first place.

.

.

.

"How would you go about getting holy water, do you think, if you needed some?"

Fell scoffed, sounding tinny. "My dear boy, I don't take you for a religious sort, but if you're coming around to faith, you can fetch some from the font at a local church, or ask a priest to bless some for you."

Crowley slowly drooped forward to press his entire face to the forgiving coolness of the desktop, just barely leaving enough room between his mouth to say woodenly, "Yeah, course. Silly of me."

There was a pregnant pause over the line. "Are you?" Fell asked, sounding a little pitchy. "A believer? Or... coming around to belief?"

"Belief's not the issue," Crowley said dryly. "It's the faith. And, no, most decidedly not."

"Oh, well, that's… I suppose belief is its own sort of faith," Fell said, sounding a lot like he was reassuring himself.

Crowley blinked. "Look, if this is going to be some sort of problem—"

"No!" Fell cut in, a little squeaky, and then more calmly after an audible breath: "No, not at all, dear fellow. It's just I've been hearing about some of the… peculiar tactics the evangelists have been getting up to over in the colonies, and I know you're a frequent visitor."

Crowley took a moment to parse that before he smirked. "Not a fan, I take it?"

"My dear, there is a difference between propagating the faith and peddling it," Fell said repressively.

"'Peddling' he says," Crowley said and barked a laugh. "Fell, they're using a very efficient propaganda machine to very efficiently proselytize to the masses. And pass around a great big telephone-based collection bowl while they're at it. I'll be interested to see the state of it in a few years. Bet all those preachers will be knee deep in yachts."

Crowley jotted down "televangelism" on a scrap of paper where he was collecting ideas of things to take credit for in his next report.

Fell hemmed and hawed over the line. "Now, I'm _sure_ it won't come to that. These are still men of—of _faith_ after all."

"So were all those popes with illegitimate kids."

"Anthony," Fell moaned, aggrieved. "Forget I said anything. Only… only what do you need holy water for, if you're not…?" He trailed off with a frustrated huff, likely not knowing how to ask whatever it was he was really trying to ask.

"Peddling," Crowley replied, deadpan.

"Oh, you are a menace of the highest order," Fell pouted. "I have half a mind not to tell you about the latest Ian Fleming novel I got in, nor answer any more of your silly questions until I've received a satisfactory explanation."

Only he did—not that Crowley was concerned for even a moment, given the countless phone calls to date that demonstrated just how eager Fell was to share his knowledge with an appreciative audience. He always did so with an uncomplicated, rambling enthusiasm that Crowely had given up pretending he didn't find charming.

He ended the phone call with an eye roll and a reluctant grin and trotted downstairs to find the nearest sap he could bribe with a hundred pound note to pop down to the Church of the Immaculate Conception with a steel thermos for a quick dip.

An appropriately sketchy-looking individual who introduced himself as Lieutenant Shadwell fit the bill nicely. The successful errand had the bonus of introducing Crowley to a fresh ring of local operatives for his mischief network.

Once the thermos was safely behind lock and safe, he raised a glass in Fell's name to his plants and resolutely didn't linger on the warmth that bloomed in his corporation at invoking the man even in absence.

.

.

.

"Oh good lord," Fell muttered, cutting into his own diatribe about an inconsiderate customer who hadn't shown proper respect to his collection earlier that day.

Crowley roused from the pleasant fugue state he'd settled into as he'd let the familiar rise and fall of Fell's bookshop owner pique wash over him. "What's that?" he mumbled.

"Another questionnaire about one of the M16 route proposals in today's post," Fell grumbled.

Crowley perked up and swung his legs back down from the arm of the throne to the floor. "Thought you approved of all the public input on the Ringway Scheme," he teased, fighting to keep sibilance out of his voice. As much as he liked Fell, he still took satisfaction when he had direct evidence of one of his projects doing its demonic work.

"It is going to be much less of a bother for the environment and for the poor souls along some of the proposed routes this way," Fell admitted sourly. "But honestly, if I'd known Layfield's report would result in this much paperwork, I never would have nudged him toward the inquiry."

Crowley blinked.

"Fell, you never said you were in politics," he accused, not sure if he liked how tight his chest was suddenly feeling. He'd been to a few of the inquiry sessions, lurking in dark corners and stirring up trouble. The inquiry had been his idea—just another literal roadblock in his decades-long infernal crusade against reasonable traffic design in greater London—but he'd been worried at how sensible the Layfield Report's recommendations had been. He was still deciding whether to let the current plans proceed or to throw a few more wrenches into the system.

"Oh, well, I wouldn't say—that is, I'm not very involved," Fell spluttered. Crowley could sympathize. Being accused of being a politician would probably offend the delicate sensibilities of a soft snob like Fell. "I simply have some friends in the London Amenity and Transport Association, and when Layfield was recommended as someone who would provide a fair and thorough review of the Greater London Council's plans, I, um, well, I may have contacted a friend of a friend in Labor and… made a suggestion."

Crowley, not for the first time, contemplated just throwing himself down the exchange line and popping out on Fell's end to clap eyes on the stunning bastard.

"Are you secretly gentry?" Crowley demanded, delightedly outraged. "Or just terrifyingly rich?"

"I beg your pardon," Fell said frostily, and Crowley cackled.

"Oh come on, Fell. You can level with me. I've got you pegged for rich what with your shop in London that _doesn't sell anything_ , but to pull off that sort of power move in a government this big? Either you're secretly a duke or a miracle worker." He considered and shrugged. "Possibly both."

"My dear fellow, I have no idea what nonsense you are on about," Fell said with consonants so crisp they practically crackled over the connection.

Crowley stifled an honest-to-goodness giggle before it could ruin his reputation. He was only demoted to "fellow" instead of "dear boy" when he'd really tweaked Fell's metaphorical pigtails.

"Yeah, all right, fine, I'll leave off," he relented easily and slumped back in the throne again with a grin still pulling hard on his mouth.

"Well, someone needed to step in and bring some common sense to the proceedings. Never mind the cost and the destruction of people's homes, some of these designs are just ridiculous," Fell said, thawing from cold to mildly bitchy. "Anthony, they want to put the motorway through Epping Forest," he lamented. "And you should see one of the drawings included in this questionnaire. You'd think they were constructing some sort of, of demonic summoning circle or dread sigil with the amount of contortions there are."

Crowley sucked in a surprised breath.

Oh, now _there_ was a thought.

He couldn't remember what his original excuse for calling Fell was, but he surely knew what it was now.

"Dread sigils? Surely not. And what would a veritable angel like you know about something like that anyway?" he practically purred.

Fell paused and said, "I happen to know a great deal about them," with prim affront.

Bingo.

"Yeah?" Crowley said, making sure to infuse his tone with just the right balance of intrigue and skepticism sure to get the man's dander up.

"Ancient occult texts are just as valuable and collectable as misprint bibles, I'll have you know. I have several, just—hold on a moment, and I'll prove it to you, you silly man."

"If you insist," Crowley agreed, slouching back further and conjuring up a notepad and pen.

Maybe he wouldn't scupper the new ringway scheme after all. Maybe he'd just make sure it finished with a very particular design.

.

.

.

"Got a new phone. How does it sound?" Crowley prompted, smug as anything.

"Oh, has there been another jump in technology?" Fell asked politely. "I'm afraid I don't quite keep up with these things as much as I ought."

Crowley considered the sleek new Trimphone he'd just installed next to his serviceable Ansaphone and shrugged. "Yeah, why not," he decided, and the connection was surprised to find itself marginally crisper. "But the _point_ is that it looks extremely cool."

"Oh, and I suppose you're going to tell me there's a direct correlation between how 'cool' a phone looks and how well it operates," Fell replied dryly.

"If it knows what's good for it, yeah," Crowley agreed cheerfully with a gimlet stare at the receiver with its oversized decorative number buttons.

"Well, my old one-twenty-four model still works admirably," Fell snipped and then conceded, "although I do find I favor my new Bakelite. Much easier to talk hands free."

Crowley was momentarily caught on the mental image of Fell with the sturdy little Bakelite handset tucked between his cheek and shoulder as he looked up something in one of his endless books before the implications of the word "new" sunk in.

"Do you mean that Bakelite I badgered you into picking up?"

"The very same," Fell said, sounding inordinately pleased that Crowley remembered.

"Fell, that was something like forty years ago. You are not allowed to call it 'new,'" he declared.

"New is relative," Fell dismissed. "And it's still perfectly serviceable, so I don't know why I should worry myself with the latest fad."

"Not even if you could get something without a cord? Wander the shelves as you please without ever having to put down the phone?" Crowley wheedled, flipping idly through a "Sharper Image" catalog lying on the desk that he'd had imported from across the pond. The new plastic smell hadn't had time to wear off his fashionable Trimline, but he liked to keep his options open.

"That sounds like it would be more for your benefit than mine," Fell said with an insulting amount of mirth in his tone. "Do you get lonely when I have to put you down, my dear?"

Crowley froze, something sharp and prickly shooting through him.

It wasn't the flirting. Fell flirted, on occasion, in that harmless way of maiden aunts or wildly self-assured shopkeepers looking to keep your business. Crowley could get a bit flirtatious back when it suited his mood. There was safety in the relative anonymity they'd maintained over the years and the well-worn grooves of their conversational patterns that allowed for the playful affection to bloom gently without becoming fraught. He got the distinct impression Fell was just as happy as he was to keep things the right side of light and silly.

He realized, after a moment's reflection, it was all the talk of things old and new, the phone models like ticks on a timeline it was becoming increasingly difficult for Crowley to ignore was morbidly long.

He briefly considered looking up the current average lifespan of a human man and immediately skittered away from the mental calculations. Fell didn't sound any less sharp than he had during their earliest phone calls. He was a man of comfort and leisure, after all. It was amazing what money and clean living could do for your health these days.

And, well, before pestilence and pollution and war and famine really started hitting their stride in the past two-to-three-thousand years, it wasn't uncommon for humans to live for centuries. If a lush like Noah could hold out almost a millennia before kicking it, there was nothing saying Fell had to be nearing his end.

"Anthony, dear, can you hear me?" Fell's voice called down the line, sounding concerned.

Crowley abruptly came back to himself and took in a deep, unnecessary breath. "Yep, right here. Sorry, got distracted looking at all these sexy new phone models in this catalog." He tried for a laugh, but it came out a little croaky.

"Yes, of course, I see where I rate," Fell said, and Crowley could almost hear the twinkle in his eye over the phone. "Did you need anything, by the by? I can't quite remember why you called."

"Nope, didn't need anything," Crowley said, so busy forcing himself to keep his voice light even as dread was building a home in his guts that he tripped right into brutal honesty. "Just wanted a chat. To check in, I guess."

"You do miss me," Fell confirmed, sounding as pleased as a cat with cream, or a book collector back from an estate sale.

A terrible inner voice that echoed in the hollows where his Grace used to reside whispered that Fell's estate sale would be one for the records.

"Yeah, I'm fair caught," Crowley admitted, helpless, on a rasping breath.

"Well!" Fell exclaimed, coming over shy and just a touch flustered, after all. "The feeling is mutual, obviously."

"Obviously," Crowley echoed and slumped in his throne.

.

.

.

Crowley wished he could say he did the sensible thing and ended the relationship, or at least let it atrophy until it reached a natural breaking-off point. He'd made a half-arsed attempt at the latter, forcing almost an entire year to pass between calls that had become nearly monthly. But when he finally called again, the stuttered, stiff-upper-lipped apology Fell had tried to tender for whatever misstep he'd made in their previous exchange had him caving not two minutes in.[7]

"No, hey, it's nothing you did—nothing like that. I was just… really very busy. Consulting," he'd said with all the finesse of a kid bullshitting their way through their first attempted breakup. It wasn't strictly a lie, he consoled himself. He'd been very busy doing things to distract himself from calling Fell, which had turned into almost a compulsion once he'd decided to let things lie.

"I see," Fell said, sounding very much like he did not but was willing to grasp at whatever straws Crowley was throwing his way. "Of course, naturally your work should come first. One's calling is paramount, I'm sure," he said, voice ringing hollow for all he was clearly striving to sound chipper. "Although I would appreciate, if it's not too much of a bother, that you might tell me in advance if you expect to be busy for an extended period of time. Only, I worry, you see. We don't… well, I don't exactly know how to get a hold of you, other than over the phone. Which is completely fine!" he hastened to say. "I would be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the mystery at least a little bit, but… well, if you stop calling without explanation, I'm afraid my mind makes some very silly leaps."

Crowley, by this point, had oozed his way out of the throne entirely and onto the floor in a puddle of self-recriminating goo.[8]

"It's not silly," Crowley said glumly, immediately shelving any and all plans at distancing himself. "I was being, um, inconsiderate, of your, urk, your feelingsss," he choked out, unable to pinch back the lisp at the end as he fought through his infernal instincts and expressed a morsel of genuine remorse.

It hadn't occurred to him, which was really very silly of him, he realized, internal narration coming over all Fell for a moment, that the bastard on the other end of the line might be suffering from some of the same worries as him. For all Fell knew, Crowley was an old coot in an ambiguously dangerous line of work (or works). Of course he might expect any sudden silence could be a very final one.

"I appreciate you saying so," Fell had murmured. "And please, if you ever wished to… well, to meet, please don't take my appreciation of the anonymity we've enjoyed all these years as a repudiation. If it's ever something you desired, I think you would find it would not be a very difficult temptation. Whatever you're comfortable with, my dear Anthony."

And that gentle reassurance, the tender consideration of his own needs—as though Crowley were the fragile one of the two of them—had Crowley curling in on himself in the gloom under his desk, handset clutched tight to his face.

"I know I joke, but... I think you might actually be an angel," he confessed, voice barely a murmur. At Fell's shocked, indrawn breath, he clarified, "Not—not a _real_ angel—all cold voice of God come down from on high to smite the sinners, or what have you. I mean what people _want_ angels to be. Kind, helpful, forgiving. All warm and, and _soft_." He winced and barreled on. "I promise I'll call. Next time I have to go away, for whatever reason. Or at least, I'll try my damndest."

Which, as a being of literal damnation, was committing to quite a lot of effort indeed. But there was very little that could outright destroy him, and he figured even in the event of an untimely discorporation he could probably convince an Eric to pop topside and send a bit of post for him.

"Oh, you really are so kind," Fell said, sounding suspiciously damp over the connection. "I appreciate the thought, and the promise. And I'll make one of my own, as well. If I should ever be called away, I will do my very best to let you know beforehand."

"Thanks, angel," Crowley said, reeling a bit at how much it didn't hurt to be called kind by this funny, soft fusspot of a man.

He was so doomed.

* * *

  


7 He could admit, after a few therapeutic sessions with his plants and a quite extraordinary amount of alcohol, that it was a relationship, however unconventional and largely platonic. And just how he'd managed to accidentally get himself so emotionally entangled with a mortal he could only blame on the evils of the phone exchange, offering intimacy without requiring confrontation. [return to text]

8 The Trimline was surprised to discover the length of its handset cord grew three times its normal length that day, and thereafter retained a slinky flexibility that the stretchiest of coil-corded phones could only dream of possessing. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff I know way more about now than I really need to b/c this is a period-hopping fic:
> 
>   * Televangelism reeeally got poppin' in the 1960s, picking up from trendsetters who got their start in radio-evangelism. I was a little bummed that so many of the famous American (and some British!) televangelists are either currently still alive or only very recently dead or I would have picked on someone by name, lol. (Feels like poor sport to take potshots at named living individuals, but that's to my personal comfort. So I took potshots at the institution of televangelism instead, lol.)
>   * There are people who are _very invested_ in documenting the [entire history of the dumpster fire that is the M25](https://www.roads.org.uk/index.php/ringways), and honestly, bless you, "copyright Chris Marshall," from the bottom of my fic-writing soul.
>   * Crowley's phone in the show is most likely a 1981 Trimline model, which was considered deeply fashionable when it first came out. It's probably either a [786 model](https://antiquetelephones.co.uk/contents/en-uk/p1455.html) or possibly a [Snowdon collection 8766](https://www.worthpoint.com/worthopedia/8766-push-button-trimphone-snowdon-1414839575). ~~Ask me how many gifs I stared at in one tab before toggling to other tabs with image searches for trendy phones in 80s UK.~~
>   * Incidentally, if you're interest in the history of UK phone systems and official phone models issued by the British Post Office over the years, I got most of my research from, literally, [britishtelephones dot com](https://www.britishtelephones.com/)
> 



	4. Send it off in a letter to yourself

**[Tadfield - 2006]**

The moment Crowley finished handing off the basket containing the bouncing bundle of newly minted evil, he called Fell.

Or tried to. He almost chucked his useless mobile out the window except that with the luck he was having that night he didn't want to chance not being able to find a suitable replacement in the morning.

Instead, he found a working public telephone box and called Fell.

"It's me," he said without preamble once the line connected. "We need to talk."

"Anthony?" Fell said, sounding distinctly peaky. "I'm afraid I've had a bit of an evening. I'm not sure I'm up for—"

"It's the end of the world," Crowley intoned and then winced and backpedaled. "Well, figuratively, anyway. Got a bit of a situation with, er, work. Big… corporate takeover kind of thing, I suppose you could say. Except it's a mad idea, lots of fallout and, er, collateral damage. I need to stop it, but I can't do it alone."

Fell was quiet over the line for a long moment before saying, tentatively, "And you want me to help you?"

Crowley barked a laugh before he could help himself. "No—no, no, no—absolutely not. I know you have some fingers in some pies, but this is way above your paygrade, angel. This is all… extralegal, if you get me."

"I'm afraid I don't," Fell said frankly, "but it sounds very grave. What do you need from me, then? Oh, with the news I've just had, I do think it would be very nice to be of real help to someone just now."

Crowley paused. "Yeah? Should we talk about yours first?" It wasn't like the little ankle biter was going to end things tomorrow, or anything. Didn't have teeth yet, for a start.

"No, no—just some... upsetting politics. Nothing I should really discuss with anyone—I'm sure you know how that is, with your interesting work history. Oh, I suppose we all have our roles to play, and I know what mine is, even if I don't much like it in this case."

Crowley spared a glare for the ground beneath his feet before slouching down to sprawl on the suddenly immaculately clean floor of the telephone box. It sounded like he officially needed to settle in for this call. "All right, we don't have to talk about it. But if anyone's messing you about, just give me a name. I can be very discreet."

Fell huffed a laugh. "None of that, now, you fiend. Go on, tell me how I can help."

Crowley straightened up a bit. "Well, see, I'm not the only player in town, right? The other, er, corporation involved in all this, they also have a jack-of-all-trades type guy they send to take care of things for them. I've never met him officially, but we know _of_ each other and sort of... keep out of each other's way. But what I do know of him, I think he would think this takeover is a bad idea. He might be willing to help sabotage the whole thing with me, if I could convince him."

"Ooh, like double-agents?" Fell said excitedly. "Well, you have much more experience than I do with, with _spy_ things. What could I possibly help you with?"

"I need advice," Crowley says firmly. "How do I convince a rival—an enemy, even—who I've never once spoken with directly and who's been a company man just about as long as I have to turn double agent?"

"That is a pickle," Fell agreed.

Crowley pulled a face. Fell was criminally undercutting the drama of the situation.

After a few moments of thoughtful humming, Fell suggested, "Well, there's nothing like a good, old-fashioned letter for when you want to be sure you can get all your points laid out exactly as you want them without the pressure of the moment making you forget something or misspeak."

"Yeah?" Crowley said, perfectly able to fill in the blanks from the way Fell's tone went squirrely at the end that he was speaking from hard-won experience. "I'm not much of a writer."

"It doesn't need to be eloquent, just persuasive," Fell insisted. "Help him see that you are not so different from one another, that your wants and needs in this affair are one and the same. So long as you write from the heart, your passion should come through." He paused before tacking on, like he couldn't help himself, "And do please remember to be polite. At least until you've managed to secure his help."

Crowley grinned so he could be sure it would come through in his voice. "So you're saying an opening like 'Listen, you self-righteous prick' is no good?"

"It could use a bit of a workshop, yes," Fell agreed wryly.

He'd be lying if he said the coiled knot of panic currently lodged somewhere behind his sternum magically went away, but Fell's soft, posh voice in his ear and a plan in the making did make it loosen a little.

"It's a good idea," he said, not bothering to hide the fondness in his tone. Hey, it was the end times! He might as well let loose a little in these final years. "He seems like the sort who would appreciate a good letter. Very official."

"I'm glad to be of help. Do let me know how it turns out, if you can. This sounds dangerous, and I do so hate to think of you putting yourself in harm's way."

Crowley scoffed. "Nah, the other guy's good, but I'm better. I could take him."

.

.

.

**[London - 2006]**

Crowley was deeply, mortifyingly aware that in a direct fight he absolutely could not take on the Principality Aziraphale, former Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, Heaven's principal agent on Earth, and Crowley's long-time adversary-at-a-respectable-distance.

He'd once seen the bastard fixing the wall of Eden with his bare hands, no miracles necessary, and hefting whole stacks of wood planks when helping Noah's brood construct the ark. It had affirmed his original hesitation about approaching the principality on the wall after Adam and Eve had booked it.

And if he'd had any lingering doubts about the wisdom of keeping his distance, the one time he'd tried sneaking up on the principality not long after the floods had receded had cemented it:[9] He'd barely gotten within ten metres when a holy bolt of lightning arced to earth just centimeters before his coils, close enough to blind him for the better part of a month and give him one Heaven of a scale burn. To this day, he wasn't entirely sure if the miss had been intentional or not, although he was pretty sure he had the principality's number well enough by now to figure it had been intended as a warning shot.

Whatever the intent, Crowley had backed off.

For six thousand years, they had circled each other, first defensively, then merely warily, and finally in the past thousand years or so more-or-less politely. These days they managed enough of an unspoken armistice to not only live in the same city but even on occasion see each other at gatherings or public places from a distance without more hostility than a frosty glare and one or the other immediately removing themselves from the area.

It was why Crowley was draped on a particular bench in St. James park at what was for him a very irregular time. They had something of a timeshare with the bench, and he knew the principality favored an early Sunday morning communion with the ducks. Sure enough, at the extra-godly hour of seven o' five, he spotted a white poof of hair round the entrance and then come to a surprised stop just inside the gates.

Crowley made a big production of holding his hands up in a sign of peace, an envelope held up between his fingers so the elaborate wax seal was easily visible from a distance. The principality, face already drawing into a disapproving frown, eyed him and the envelope warily, but was obviously intrigued enough not to just do an about face and leave.

Crowley kept his hands up and stood slowly. When the principality didn't do more than clench his right fist over nothing—probably wishing for that flaming sword the humans had nicked from him—he made a show of placing the envelope on the seat of the bench and then shifting the box of pastries he'd brought as a bribe to cover it. He made sure to tip the box up slightly so the distinctive logo was visible.

As expected, the principality's eyes widened in surprise, made a detour through intense interest, and finally settled on a suspicious squint. Crowley shrugged expressively. He knew from close calls at bougie parties over the centuries that the principality had a sweet tooth, and this bakery was well known to be worth the exorbitant prices.

Finally, when it didn't seem like the principality was going to flounce off in a righteous snit, Crowley nodded once to him in acknowledgement, tipped his head slightly to indicate the box and its hidden envelope, and then turned and sauntered in the opposite direction toward one of the other exits.

When he felt he was far away enough to risk it, he peeked back over his shoulder to see if his gambit had worked. The principality was standing by the bench, eyes locked on Crowley's retreating form with consternation wrinkling his frankly on-the-nose cherubic features. But, he had the envelope in hand, which was key. When he saw that Crowley had looked back, the principality—Aziraphale, Crowley figured he would need to get used to thinking of him as—gave his own nod of acknowledgement back.

Well, it was a start, Crowley decided.

.

.

.

_28 August 2006_

_Principality Aziraphale,_

_I know we haven't exactly got on over the past few millennia, but I think it's fair to say we have a professional accord. Mostly stay out of each other's way, in any event. I think it's probably also fair to say that somewhere along the line you had the same epiphany I did that mostly humans sort themselves out when it comes to acts of great evil and great goodness without much help from either of us. I won't lie, I've taken credit for a few of their worse acts, and even given credit to you for some of their better ones in my reports when I thought it wouldn't come back to bite either of us._

_The point is, just as much as we've been keeping an eye on the humans all these years, we've also been keeping an eye on each other, and I think I can say with confidence that you like them and all their mess and beauty just as much as I do. That you like being here on Earth just as much as I do. And that you probably won't be thrilled with the idea of it all going to slag when Armageddon happens._

_The Apocalypse, by the way, is very much nigh. I was tasked with delivering His Disgrace's spawn to his foster parents myself earlier this week. Just a baby now, but he's set to come into his powers and call forth the Horsemen when he turns eleven._

_I won't beat around the bush with you: I don't want the world to end. I want to keep existing down here in the muck with these fantastically flawed arseholes with their theatre and wine and art and interesting little shops and capacity for things far more interesting than anything Heaven or Hell could ever come up with._

_I want to stop it. I think you might want to as well, now you know. Ask upstairs if you need to check I'm telling the truth about it starting—I don't expect you to trust me right out, when we've never really gotten the full measure of each other._

_But please, if you have any love for this planet, don't tell anyone about this letter._

_Instead, consider an arrangement: Help me stop the apocalypse. Help me save the world and humanity._

_Regards,_

_Crowley_

_P.S. No offense, but the thing about not quite trusting goes both ways, at least right out the gate like this. This letter will catch fire within five minutes of being opened (not hellfire, just regular), so maybe chuck it into your sink or fireplace or something if you don't want to get singed._

.

.

.

_02 September 2006_

_Demon Crowley,_

_I cannot say I ever expected to receive such an extraordinary letter as the one you left for me in the park, and not just for the fact that it did, indeed, spontaneously combust almost before I could get it into a fire-proof receptacle. I suppose I appreciate the warning…_

_I have also been recently informed by my superiors of the impending Apocalypse. The matter has been weighing heavily on my mind for some days, which is why I am willing to entertain this exchange of missives with you. Although I believe the more accurate term would be "dead drop," would it not?_

_I would be lying if I said it does not distress me to think of the destruction of this world, which as you so eloquently stated is indeed full of the best and worst of what any of Her creations have been able to accomplish._

_However, I do not believe I can be of assistance. As I am often reminded by upper management, the ending of the world and the triumph of Heaven is all part of Her Great Plan. Humanity will receive its final reckoning, and the just will be blessed with everlasting peace in a new Kingdom above._

_Therefore, as much as it might cause me a private grief to think of the destruction of all the wonders humanity has achieved on Earth, I must have faith that they will receive the opportunity to achieve all that again and more after the End of Days._

_Sincerely and with professional respect,_

_Aziraphale_

_P.S. Please do not mistake my reluctance for disapproval. It is in your nature to rebel, after all. And I do wish you the best of luck in your attempts, although I cannot imagine they will be allowed success._

_P.P.S. Also, rest assured I will keep your efforts in confidence, as I have kept mum all these years about your false claims to both inspiring their greatest follies and in thwarting some of their greatest acts of goodness (many of which never had any angelic influence, as you well know, which was extremely awkward to navigate when upper management tried to give me conciliatory compliments on my "thwarted efforts")._

_P.P.P.S. And "you are most welcome" for those few times I mentioned your name when I needed a plausible reason to intervene in some dreadfully heinous situations I was able to directly correct. I assumed you would not mind the liberty given how freely you bandied about my own name. I do hope ever so much that you were never similarly caught on the back foot by any unexpected condolences from your own colleagues._

_(mind your fingers for the burn—ta, ever so)_

.

.

.

_03 September 2006_

_Aziraphale,_

_You are a right petty bastard, and I think I like you the better for it. Makes me wonder how things could have gone if I'd followed my first instinct and slithered up that wall to say hi all those years ago before the first storm. Imagine! We might have come to a more formal arrangement, and then neither of us would have had to deal with management crawling up our backsides about surprise initiatives and thwartings._

_(I suppose I should say thanks. Got a few commendations out of some of your unauthorized miracle uses for work already completed to that point. Honestly, I'm still surprised you never ratted me out. Don't know what I was thinking the first time I did it. I suppose I didn't think the two sides were talking so it would never get back to you. Should have known the hypocritical bastards have backchannels.)_

_And come off it, you can't bleed your heart out all over paper like that and then try and blot it over with mealy mouth party lines about "everlasting peace." You know it won't work out like you "must have faith in." And if you don't want to or can't spell it out for whatever reason (I get it, I really do—if it's in my nature to rebel, it follows it must be in yours to conform, right? Can't go asking questions or raising doubts or you might find yourself dunked in a crater of boiling sulfur.), I'll do it for you:_

  * _Hell has all the good creatives. I don't know what it is about humanity enabling shitty behavior in the name of genius, but there you are._
  * _All right, even if the above is an exaggeration, there are some good eggs out there producing great works of art, science, literature, music, philosophy, what have you, most of humanity's greatest inspiration has come from facing strife and then either overcoming or falling to despair about it._
  * _"Art doesn't require suffering, Crowley" you say? Sure, that's true. I've seen it a time or two. But, creativity doesn't perform well in a vacuum. It thrives on change, on evolution, on people from all walks of life bumping and bumbling into each other and leaving little sticky bits of themselves behind whether they know it or not. And that's where it falls apart, because Heaven and everlasting peace is an anathema to change. The cherry-picked worthy few will go up and be preserved like flies in amber. Never anything new. Never any one new. It'll all just stop. Or at best run on a loop. I hear they like the "Sound of Music" up there. Great musical. Victor Victoria in a nun's habit, phenomenal. Thwarting Nazis, a great time. And the meme material—honestly, some of my best work. However. Imagine nothing but "The Lonely Goatherd" on repeat, nonstop, for the rest of eternity because nothing else will ever be made to move on to. Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo._



_All of it, gone, poof. And for what? So our bosses can settle some celestial pissing contest? Do we even really know this is what She wants anyway? Where is it written? I want to see the memo, signed and sealed by Her hand—however that would work. Not by that wanker the Metatron, either. Bloody mouthpiece says he speaks for Her? I'd bet my wings he speaks for her about as well as the King James Bible does—very pretty prose, but there's been a hefty amount of editorial and translational liberties taken._

_Come on. You're a guardian, right? Set here to protect humanity? So do it!_

_Crowley_

_P.S. No fire this time. Consider it a show of faith._

.

.

.

_20 October 2006_

_Dear Crowley,_

_Her plan is ineffable._

_Which I suppose means that no matter what I do, it should all work out exactly as She expects it to._

_It could be that She expects me to try, and whether it ends up a triumph or failure, any of it, all of it…_

_What I mean to say is, what did you have in mind?_

_Most sincerely,_

_Aziraphale_

_P.S. I suppose if I can have faith in anything, it's that if She truly didn't want me to follow my instincts she would have done more than ask me a rather pointed question about the location of my flaming sword after I gave it away to Adam and Eve. Surely, if I can be forgiven for that…_

.

.

.

_21 October 2006_

_First of all, I am really pleased you're willing to give this arrangement a shot. Don't want to skip over that. That's definitely the thing I should acknowledge first, since I can only imagine how long you wrestled with everything before coming to that decision, which is honestly about the bravest thing I think I've ever seen any angel or demon ever do._

_Before we get to my ideas, though, we really have to take a moment to address that postscript:_

_YOU WHAT?!_

_[...]_

  


* * *

  


9 In retrospect, he could admit that trying to sneak up on an angel of the lord while in his giant snake form—just for a bit of harmless terrorizing between rivals, that's all—was perhaps not his best thought out idea, but he still maintained that the reaction was not proportionate to the offense. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My working title for this chapter was "Wherein Identity Shenanigans Reach Shakespearean Heights."


	5. It’s the only one you own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, friends! This chapter ends on a wee, canon-appropriate cliffhanger. If you'd prefer, you can wait until the next update so you can get the suspense and resolution over with in one go. :)

**[London, 2006-2019]**

Aziraphale arranged for a gardener named Francis to attend the Dowling Estate during the early years, and then a tutor named Mr. Cortese when the boy was old enough. Crowley made his own arrangements, for a nanny called Ashtoreth and then a Mr. Harrison for tutoring. At Aziraphale's insistence, they kept correspondence to furtive dead drops on bus seats, art gallery pamphlet racks, and concert will calls. _I've an acquaintance in Earth Observation, and the files are extensive. They don't always understand, but they do_ _see_ , the principality had insisted. _We can't be too careful._

Crowley found Aziraphale's paranoia catching, and likewise was far more circumspect with Fell than he'd been in decades when conversation inevitably came round to what they were getting on with.

"How is the work with your rival coming along, then?" Fell would ask, sounding a little distracted, as he tended to be these days. A long-term political project he'd reluctantly become embroiled in, he'd confessed. It took up a lot of his time, making their calls shorter than usual, for all that they stayed quite regular.

If Crowley hadn't had his own apocalyptic mess eating up the lion's share of his attention, he might have been a little put out. As it was, he kept his own answers equally shallow: "Good, good. We don't always agree on tactics, but I don't doubt his commitment to the end goal."

Although he would never have predicted it, Crowley found the exchanges with both Fell and Aziraphale grounding as the years ticked down toward the moment of truth.

Aziraphale was by turns infuriatingly righteous and shockingly fragile. His commitment to the cause never wavered, but his faith in whether things would ultimately turn out for the best vacillated wildly letter to letter. Crowley found he perked back up with a devil's argument to sharpen his wit on, which Crowley was only too delighted to provide.

They debated theology and morality and who the biggest pricks were through all of human history, and Crowley preened with every reluctant " _I suppose you have a point_ " he drew out and squirmed at every " _that is a rather kind perspective for a demon to hold, is it not?_ " he accidentally inspired.

It was… invigorating, he decided. Someone of similar stock was interested in his point of view about things, for a change. And Aziraphale inspired the latent protective streak he tried to pretend he didn't have. The more they compared notes, the more Crowley understood how much good the principality wanted to do in the world, and how hamstrung he was by the petty limitations his superiors placed on him. He was just so damn _lonely_ , Crowley realized with a pang of deepfelt kinship.

_You know, I did try to correct them, the first few times they tried to give me credit for good deeds you misattributed to me,_ Aziraphale wrote, when the countdown ticked over from years to mere months.

_You were right, I was watching you—keeping tabs in case I needed to intervene on anything over the line. It's how I came to know your style (why I ever entertained the notion of this arrangement) and therefore realized the intel head office had was incorrect._

_I might as well have been talking to myself for all the good trying to point it out did. When I realized they trusted whatever connections they had below more than me, well…_

_I stopped arguing and decided to see what good I could eke out of the situation. And that's when I started blaming you for things when I thought I could get away with it._

On the other side of things, Fell's soothing prattle about this book or that customer or another was a guaranteed balm when coming back up from a Hellish check-in. Crowley could bitch all he wanted, albeit in circumspect terms, about how awful his job was and how lacking in vision his bosses were, and Fell was guaranteed to make all the right indignant tutts and tsks on his behalf without question.

"What you sound like, my dear, is someone with a keen understanding of the human condition," Fell said one evening when Crowley was three bottles deep into a sulk because Ligur was being an insistent twat about egging the antichrist into murdering someone (or, egging the CEO's kid into hazing an intern, in the version he told Fell). "That sort of empathy is a gift. And though I can't say I've endorsed all the projects you've undertaken over the years, it sounds like you always do your best to give people a choice."

"Ngk," Crowley responded, too sloshed for anything more coherent.

"And I know you don't like to talk about this latest project, and I'm not asking for details, but I couldn't be more proud of the fact that you've seen a grave injustice about to be committed and thrown yourself so fully into trying to prevent it, at what sounds like great personal cost and danger."

"Shut up," Crowley muttered, face burning. Still, he cradled his mobile to his face and felt a drippy sort of gratitude for the validation, however misinformed and therefore misguided it might be.

"I will not," Fell said cheerfully. "You are a dear and deserve every good thing in this world, and… and I hope you have a chance to get it," he said, voice getting a little wobbly by the end. "Oh, dear, I think your gloom is catching. Perhaps we ought to call it an evening, hmm?"

"Yeah, fine, angel," Crowley mumbled and then slouched back down under his desk, which was becoming rather a habit when Fell made him feel tender bellied. "Want good things for you too," he confessed blearily.

"I don't doubt it, you darling thing you," Fell said so warmly Crowley felt it down to his bones. "Now, go take a paracetamol, drink a tall glass of water, and get yourself to bed. Pip, pip!"

Crowley never failed to be impressed by how much simultaneous affection and exasperation he could feel for a person as when he spoke with Fell. It was enough to inspire him to take the advice, even if he muttered insultingly falsetto versions of "pip pip!" under his breath the whole time.

.

.

.

When things went absolutely pear shaped, and he found himself dressed in heavy-duty latex carefully setting up the world's deadliest version of a water-bucket-over-the-door prank, he glared at his mobile until it meekly rang Fell on speaker.

"H-hello?" Fell said, sounding harried.

"Angel, look, things have gone a bit sideways with my project, so this is me keeping my promise to call," he said, feeling shockingly calm for all he was handling holy water. "I don't know what's going to happen, but I'll do whatever's in my power to come find you, if I can, once everything shakes out."

"Oh—oh, _Anthony_ ," Fell said, sounding ruined. "I'm afraid I was just about to call you for a similar purpose."

It was so unexpected, Crowley actually looked away from the steady stream of doom pouring from the thermos into the bucket. "What? Are you in danger? Fell, what's going on," he barked out.

"Nothing you can help with, I'm afraid," Fell said on a watery chuckle. "Oh, but I'm very much afraid we may never speak to each other again, my dearest Anthony."

"Shit, no—Fell," Crowley yelped, awkwardly bobbling the thermos onto the floor and hopping over to snatch up the mobile from the desk and press it to his ear. "What are you on about? Are you at the shop? Wherever you are, I'll come to you."

"No, no, please, don't," he pleaded. "In fact, don't go anywhere. You are to stay _safe_ right where you are, and under no circumstances are you to go to Tadfield."

" _Tadfield_?" Crowley shrieked, eyes darting over to the latest, hastily scrawled note he'd picked up from the park bench dead drop this morning.

An awful suspicion began blooming in his mind.

"That's right. Stay away, no matter what you might hear on the news about it. If things work out, I'll try to come find you. Oh, but I'm not sure I'll be able—that they'll let me after what I'm about to do."

"I don't understand—" Crowley stuttered, mind working overtime as seemingly innocuous little coincidences and similarities piled up in an absolutely absurd mess of revelation.

"This may very well be the end of the world, darling," Fell said. "Oh, but if it is, know that I am so glad to have known you at the last of it."

Crowley choked on nothing.

It was impossible. It was stupid.

It was absolutely the kind of thing that would happen to him.

"Someone's here," Fell said then, hushed, and there was a great clatter like the handset had dropped to the floor.

"Wait, _wait_ — _Aziraphale_?" Crowley asked, finally, half in fear and half in hope. "Who's there? Aziraphale!"

But then the doorbell rang and a pair of demons were crooning the name he'd shed millennia ago, and he had to scramble to save his own skin.

By the time he tried calling Fell's number again, the line rang and rang but didn't connect.

And when he pulled up for the first time in front of the building he'd finally, after over a hundred years, bothered to look up the address for, A.Z. Fell and Co., Antiquarian and Unusual Books, was burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise there's a happy ending!


	6. You don’t want to call nobody else

**[Tadfield, August 2019]**

Crowley went into the shop, because he couldn't not, but he didn't linger beyond seeing the Heavenly contact circle on the floor, wreathed in flame, and the book of prophecies Aziraphale had been nattering on about in his last letter. Bending down for the book saved him from being trounced by high-propulsion water, at least.

The confirmation was devastating and invigorating. As he slid into the Bentley and aggressively shifted it into gear, he resolved to make it to Tadfield and dropkick the antichrist if he had to. Because after, well… After, he was going to storm the pearly gates if he had to and track down the angel—it had to be a mere discorporation, it had to—and shake him, gently, until the reason why they were both so blitheringly oblivious rattled out of one of the other of them. Any other vision of the future just wasn't acceptable at this point.

Aziraphale, or Fell, because they were both slightly contrary bastards, was of course already at the airbase when Crowley arrived slightly crisped and a lot manic.

"Aziraphale," he croaked out, sauntering toward the motley group by the gates like he wasn't simultaneously dying and being reborn to see his hundred-year-long human friend and angelic co-conspirator possessing the body of a woman in a technicolor dreamcoat like he was playing at being a demon.

The woman turned and squinted across the distance at him before saying, "I say, Crowley! My dear boy, I'm glad you made it," in Fell's fussy voice.

That voice saying his name was doing weird squirmy things to his insides that he was resolved to ignore, but not before the feeling hijacked his answer so it came out a bit like, "Aaaurrruunnnghk, yeah, s'me."

The woman blinked rapidly, false lashes fluttering madly before Aziraphale said slowly, "My word, do you know... you sound _quite_ a lot like a friend of mine…"

Crowley came abreast of the woman and grimaced a bit. "I go by Anthony," he admitted, and swallowed down the feeling of his heart trying to crawl up his throat, "when I think I'm talking to a human."

The woman gasped dramatically, hands flying up by her face before she said in an entirely different voice that Crowley assumed was her own, "Do you mean to tell me your lovely Anthony and demon pen pal are the same person?"

He could tell the moment Aziraphale took back control because the woman's face contorted into obviously mortified shock and he started stuttering out a flurry of "oh dears" and "how dids" and "I never even thoughts." Well, at least he wasn't the only one who'd been a complete moron.

"Yeah, put it together for sure myself when I went by your bookshop to look for you. S'a real head trip. Planning on a full-blown breakdown about it later, but right now I think we have some bigger things to be getting on with."

Then, the Bentley exploded.

.

.

.

After, when they were sat together on a park bench passing a bottle of cheap something back and forth, Crowley couldn't help but stare.

Before now, he'd only ever seen Aziraphale from across rooms and parks and gallery floors, where the distance blurred some of the finer details. He was trying, quite desperately, to reconcile the principality with the angel, but every time he felt he was getting close, he'd hyperfocus on the laugh lines around his eyes, the little tip-tilt at the end of his nose, the places where the velvet of his waistcoat were worn away by time and fussing, the squared-off neat tips of his soft, strong fingers.

Aziraphale was staring back, eyebrows doing something complicated and tragic as his gaze darted over Crowley in turn.

"Do you…" Aziraphale started and petered out.

Crowley raised his eyebrows over his glasses in silent prompt, and Aziraphale gamely tried again.

"He said he knew all about us, that boy. Adam. He said we shouldn't worry. Do you suppose that means we shouldn't expect our respective head offices to come calling about… all of this?"

Crowley opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. He tried tipping his head back so his gaze was fixed on the sky instead, but he could hear the other man-shaped being next to him, fidgeting just slightly, could feel his angelic aura brushing awkwardly, apologetically against his own demonic one every so often.

Frustrated, he rolled his head around on his neck to loosen some of the tension, and that's when he spotted it, just down the road.

"This is unbearable," he said, and held up a hand when Aziraphale started to huff. "But… I've got an idea." In his hand, he had his mobile. He waggled it significantly and nodded toward the public telephone box just up the street.

Aziraphale put two-and-two together immediately, and his eyes widened. Then, he stood and hurried over, coat tails fluttering in his haste.

When he was standing in the telephone box, he looked back over to Crowley through the glass expectantly. Crowley rolled his eyes. Did he have to do everything?

He held his mobile up to his ear and said, "Get me the Tadfield public telephone box on Stewart and Main."

For some reason, Aziraphale frowned at him, then positively jumped out of his new skin when the telephone in the box began to ring. Looking spooked, he picked it up.

"Hello?" Fell said as Aziraphale's mouth moved and his eyes locked wide and hopeful back on Crowley's face.

"Hey, it's me," Crowley said, feeling a helpless smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

"Anthony," Fell said as the tension in Aziraphale's face softened in warm relief. "Oh, there you are, my dear."

Crowley grinned and gave a jaunty little wave from the bench. "Yeah," he admitted and practically melted into the bench as something that had been wound punishingly tight since he heard that telephone handset fall to the ground finally relaxed.

"Oh, this is all rather strange and wonderful," Aziraphale said.

"Yeah," Crowley said, doing his best to temper the giddiness welling up inside. "Anyway, I think the kid meant we don't have to worry anymore. About head offices, about sides. At least, not for now. And maybe… maybe not for us."

"Us?"

"I mean, we chose Earth, didn't we? When it came down to it? Could be our own side, here."

Aziraphale beamed at him, and it was far and away better than any smile his considerable imagination had ever conjured for Fell's face in all their talks together over the years. He resolved to see it again, and soon.

"Together?" the angel, his angel, prompted.

"Yeah, if you want," he said, not even caring in the moment that he had to look like a fool with the way his own smile was splitting his face.

"I do," Aziraphale said.

And well, that was that, Crowley supposed.

"Although," Aziraphale said, eyes squinting fractionally, "I do feel I must clear something up first."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Did you just miracle your mobile to call this telephone box in particular? Out loud?"

Crowley scoffed. "Course not. I asked the operator."

"The…" Aziraphale trailed off, obviously flummoxed. "But I didn't see you push any buttons. _Can_ you still reach an operator from a mobile? I thought there's an information line one has to dial."

"What are you on about?" Crowley asked, exasperated. "S'a telephone, even if it's mobile. I just picked up the phone and asked the ladies on the switchboards to connect me, same as always."

Aziraphale stared at him in rapt fascination for so long, Crowley began to reflexively sweat despite distinctly recalling having turned off that feature in his corporation.

"Anthony Crowley," Aziraphale said severely, "telephones have not worked that way in nearly a century." He pursed his lips. "And you call _me_ a luddite."

Crowley let out a disbelieving scoff. And then another, just for good measure. "You're having me on."

"Well, what do you think those little numbers are for, you ridiculous fiend?"

"Optional, aren't they? If you know someone's subscriber number."

"Subscr— _telephone_ number. Do you know mine?"

"Er…"

"Then how did you reach me all those years?"

Crowley shrugged. "At first... just asked for the expert in whatever it was I needed at the time. Then, just asked for 'Fell.'"

Aziraphale closed his eyes like he was in physical pain. "No wonder we didn't figure it out until today."

"Oi!" Crowley protested, sitting up a little straighter in indignation. "It always worked, didn't it?"

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "Yes, my dear boy, but you are a being of significant occult power. I'd wager you performed a miracle every time without realizing it."

Someone save him, but for every subtle shift in tone there was an equally delightful shift in Aziraphale's face. He was so damn _expressive_. No wonder Heaven couldn't handle him.

"Hey," Crowley said, softer, more urgent, possessed by the immediate and desperate need to see all those minute shifts up close where distance and the white noise of the phone line static couldn't steal away any of the nuance.

Aziraphale's attention sharpened and focused on him, alerted by something in Crowley's voice or posture. Crowley felt it like a battering ram to the heart.

He smiled a bit, to reassure the angel. "I know you like the anonymity, but I want to meet in person. Think I could tempt you to come over here?" he invited.

Aziraphale's smile was slow-blooming.

He hung up the receiver.

He came over.

"Temptation accomplished," he murmured as he settled back on the bench, closer this time, and took Crowley's hand in his own.


	7. When you get home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a soft little epilogue. :)
> 
> A million thanks and adoration again to Maria for all the amazing art she has blessed this fic with and for being an incredible partner over the course of the mini bang. Links to her social media accounts are in the end notes; if you loved the art in this fic as much as I did, I encourage you to look her up on your platform of choice and send her some love directly. :D

**[South Downs, 2022]**

  


Crowley frowned down at the cloth-covered table and the tidy rows of mason jars with twee little hand-done labels on the front. The bored teenager slouched in a folding chair behind the table reading a book flicked a disinterested glance his way but didn't seem perturbed that Crowley was loitering.

Admitting defeat, if only to himself, Crowley pulled out his mobile and held it up to his ear. "Joan, call Angel," he said.[10]

"Calling, 'Angel,'" the little robotic voice confirmed.

"Hello? Crowley?" Aziraphale said after half-a-dozen rings. He'd probably set his mobile down in the cupboard while on the hunt for biscuits again. Luckily, he still didn't know how to set the thing to vibrate, so Crowley could continue to count on whatever annoying ringtone he'd set it to that week to roust the angel from whatever book he was buried in.

"I need an expert in what flavor preserves retired principalities like on their crepes," he said, tilting a jar to squint at the chicken scratch that passed for a label better. Did that say "slrowbirry"?

Aziraphale giggled. "You're in luck. I have a first-hand source here for that very subject."

Crowley grinned. "Well, don't leave me hanging in suspense, angel."

That, of course, was when he clocked that the formerly disinterested teen was watching him carefully out the corner of their eye, eyes bright and mouth pinched in a way that suggested they were holding back a smile. Crowley scowled and turned away, taking a few steps out into what passed for a hubbub at the weekly village farmer's market.

"Whose stall are you at?" Aziraphale asked keenly.

"Ehhhh," Crowley hedged, peeking back over his shoulder to see the teen now shamelessly propped up by their elbows on the table, chin in hands, and leaning forward to eavesdrop. When they caught his eye, they helpfully pointed a finger down at the banner hung on the front of the table.

Crowley narrowed his eyes and turned away again. "Nettie's Nibbles and Noshes," he grumbled, feeling several layers of cool shrivel and flake away even saying it.

"Oh, their strawberry preserves are just lovely. But under no circumstances are you to purchase the blackberry. I'll not have it in our home again," he said like it had personally insulted his bow ties.

Crowley held the mobile away to give it the full force of his incredulous head shake, which he trusted to be transmitted by the… the beams, or whatever they were these days.[11]

"Don't give me that look, Crowley," Aziraphale tutted. "You didn't try it that time I made the grievous error of trusting Nettie's recommendation. Not an ounce of self-awareness, bless her. I took one bite and had to throw out the rest."

Crowley's eyebrows jumped in surprise. "I will not get the blackberry," he agreed, making sure his tone reflected that he understood the gravity of throwing out unfinished homemade preserves. "But, uh, which one's the…?" He chanced another look over his shoulder, where the teen was now sitting with the cash till open and cushion wrapping at the ready. "Strawberry?" he said, half into the phone, half toward the teen.

"Oh, it will look like 'slrowbirry,'" Aziraphale said apologetically at the same time the teen held up one of the jars with all the wavy-handed pageantry of an assistant on an infomercial.

"Right," Crowley said, slowly pivoting to face the table fully. The teen was already halfway through wrapping up the jar of slrowbirry and blinking up at him with polite expectation. "Anything else?"

"Oh, if Jordan is there—Nettie's grandchild—ask what they recommend. They help with the jarring, so they always know what's turned out sensibly."

Crowley eyed the teen warily before asking, "What's turned out 'sensibly'?"

The teen—Jordan, presumably—nodded and picked up a jar of something dark with an equally indecipherable label.

"Bianlelbirry?" Crowley tried, fatalistically.

"Brambleberry," he got in stereo from Aziraphale and Jordan.

"I'll take your word for it," he muttered and started digging out his wallet as Jordan cheerfully began wrapping up the second jar.

"Did you already go by the shops for wine?" Aziraphale asked.

"Yeah, got everything on the list. Just… stopped by the market too in case there was anything interesting you might like," Crowley said, ordering his corporation not to blush under Jordan's rapt, delighted scrutiny.

"Oh, you do spoil me," Aziraphale murmured. "Well, hurry back, darling. And mind how you go."

"Course. Be home soon," he said and rang off.

"You're Mr. Fell's Anthony," Jordan burst out, just as soon as Crowley lowered the mobile.

Crowley rolled his eyes but managed to carefully pluck and not snatch the little paper-and-twine bag the teen handed over.

"Oi, he's Mr. Crowley's Angel," he corrected, realized that wasn't any less mortifying, and did an about face just as Jordan pressed their hands to their mouth and cooed.

Whatever, they were each others'—whichever names they were going by. Nothing to be embarrassed about, he told himself.

The Bentley, as it often did since they'd moved to the cottage, forewent Queen, but only so it could torment him with songs about telephone calls all the way home.

* * *

  


10 He'd realized his mistake in naming the AI after their erstwhile matchmaker almost immediately. It had been an impulsive decision made under the drunkenly happy influence of the honeymoon period immediately after the world didn't end and before he'd properly appreciated the power of Aziraphale's doe eyes. He'd cracked immediately upon interrogation. The angel had been insufferably gooey about the whole thing for a solid month. [return to text]

11 He'd made a half-hearted attempt to look up how the technology worked, after the upteenth time Aziraphale had teased him about it, before he remembered he actually didn't really care. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious, [this is what the Bentley was playing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3tvRSFAVAqU) to ~~torture~~ tease Crowley. I like to think Aziraphale and Crowley would equally loathe it, even if it would def be "their song" in this fic verse. :') 
> 
> (Also, the working title for this chapter was "line jammed" because I'm awful.)

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to see more of Maria's amazing art, you can find her on [Tumblr](https://mies-reveriesart.tumblr.com/), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/mies.reveries/), and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MiesReveries).


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